


we keep this love in a photograph

by BlueRobinWrites



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: And they like it., DSD Sekrit Santa, F/M, They're in this picture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28051305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueRobinWrites/pseuds/BlueRobinWrites
Summary: I hope this fulfills the prompt for "1) I hope this fulfils the prompt for "1) Ilsa takes a picture of Cormoran & Robin making heart eyes at each other, then sends it to both of them (they aren't together... yet)."
Relationships: Ilsa Herbert & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott & Ilsa Herbert
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32
Collections: Denmark Street Discord Sekrit Santa 2020





	we keep this love in a photograph

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pools_of_venetianblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pools_of_venetianblue/gifts).



“Now do you believe me?” Ilsa asked smugly, spinning a three inch by four inch photograph across the island at him, with a flick of her wrist. 

“When did you take this?” he asked, as he looked at the image in front of him, torn between mild annoyance at being photographed without his consent and something close to gratitude. 

It seemed impossible that no pictures of the two of them together might exist, especially after five years of working together, and at least a year of being best mates, but he’d realized the other day, while chatting with his uncle, Ted, that he had only one picture of Robin, hastily and stealthily taken as she’d walked toward him up the street one morning a few months back. 

She’d been wearing jeans and one of her myriad jumpers, her brogues black and shiny and the sun had been shining on her hair, casting it in a rosy golden halo. He’d already had his phone out, as he’d waited for her, responding to a text from Barclay, and so he’d toggled over to the camera app and snapped the pic. He’d never shown it to anyone, but occasionally he gave in to the urge to pull it up and remind himself why he hadn’t asked her out yet. 

“It was the other night at Nick’s birthday dinner,” Ilsa was saying, jolting him back to the present. And now that he looked at it, he could see she was correct. In the picture, he and Robin were standing close together as they looked down at his phone. Rather, she was looking at his phone, he was looking at her, and Ilsa was right, his expression clearly showed how he felt about his partner. 

He remembered this moment very clearly. They’d caught a moment alone and he’d taken the opportunity to show her the surveillance pics he’d gotten of French Maid that afternoon. She’d stepped closer and tilted her head down to look at his phone screen and he’d been nearly overwhelmed with the need to skim a finger down the back of her neck, bared, as it rarely was, by the top knot she’d styled her hair into that day. 

Her perfume had floated around them, reminding him of the day he’d chosen it for her, the feel of her lips against the skin of his cheek, through the stubble, and the sparkle of her eyes as she’d laughed at something he’d said over her champagne.

“Have you shown it to her?” he asked, meeting Ilsa’s eyes. 

“No,” her brows lowered. “Why?”

“Good,” and he snatched it up from the countertop, tucking it away in his inner coat pocket before draining the remainder of his drink, and bidding her farewell, with a hug and a kiss and an exhortation to say hello to Nick for him. 

Later, as he’d ridden home on the train, he’d taken the picture out of his pocket and pored over it, feeling like a teenager mooning over a girl he had a crush on. 

Except, he didn’t have a crush on Robin. He knew he was in love with her. He knew she was the one person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He’d known it for a while now. But he’d avoided “making a move” as Nick and Ilsa and nearly everyone else in their lives kept telling him to do, for the simple fact that he didn’t think she was ready yet. 

He’d made a study of her over the last year or so, since her divorce had been finalised and she’d legally gone back to Ellacott from Cunliffe, and while he knew there had occasionally been moments where the atmosphere between them had been charged, it hadn’t happened enough that he felt completely certain that she was as attracted to him as he thought she might be. The moment he knew that for certain, he’d “make his move” as it were. But he’d be damned if he’d be rushed into it and ruin the most relaxed and easy friendship of his life. 

Shaking his head, he eased the picture back into his pocket as the train pulled into Tottenham Court Road station. The timing just wasn’t right yet. 

Three days later, Robin sat across from Ilsa in the Dorset Cafe on Melcombe street. Ilsa had thought it would be funny to take Robin to the Sherlock Holmes Museum, guessing, rightly, that Robin would be enchanted with the exhibits. They’d browsed about the museum and then decamped to the cafe for coffees and pastry.

“Oh, I forgot,” she said, though she hadn’t. “I have something for you.”

She held up a finger, as Robin raised her eyebrows curiously over the rim of her coffee cup, and reached into her handbag, slipping a photograph from an envelope and sliding it across the table. 

Robin picked it up, scanning it quickly before looking up sharply, her eyes filled with horror at the naked attraction and desire blazing on her face. 

“Ilsa, please tell me you haven’t shown him this picture,” she groaned.

“I haven’t,” her friend replied with a grin. “I know better.”

“Thank God. Seriously, I’d die.”

“Personally, I don’t think you would. But, I know, I know,” she waved a hand through the air as Robin opened her mouth to speak. 

“Do you mind if I…” Robin motioned to her handbag, before tapping the photograph. 

“Not at all. It’s yours.”

Robin breathed a sigh of relief as she tucked the photo into her notebook and slid it back into her handbag, resuming the conversation they’d been having before the photograph had been slid toward her. But the entire time her mind had been consumed with anxiety and panic. 

The photograph had been taken at Nick’s birthday party a few weeks before. Strike had taken a brief moment away from the festivities to show her the surveillance photos from his afternoon tailing French Maid and Ilsa had chosen to take the photograph at just the exact moment Strike had looked away from her, his face had been in profile as he’d slid his phone back into his jacket pocket, but Robin’s had shone with everything she felt for him as she’d gazed at him. 

He’d worn a new suit with a snowy white dress shirt, the weight he’d lost over the last year had allowed the cut of the jacket to accentuate the broadness of his shoulders in such a way that had made Robin want to lay her head against one of those shoulders as he held her close. 

She’d realized a few months ago that her feelings for her partner were more than those of a best mate should be. She was fairly certain she was falling, spiraling into love with him, and though she’d tried to stop, she’d been unsuccessful so far. Love was the one thing she wasn’t capable of though. She’d tried it and failed and had decided after the disaster of her marriage that she wasn’t going to fall in love again until she was sure she could do it without getting hurt. But, she’d apparently, been unable to prevent it from happening and she lived in fear of Strike finding out. 

As she followed Ilsa out of the cafe, giving her a hug and a kiss, along with a promise of dinner later that week, she frantically tried to figure out how to stop this absolute catastrophe she found herself in. He was her partner and best mate and the single most important person in her life. She couldn’t risk losing him just because she’d, stupidly, fallen in love with him and he didn’t return the feeling. 

She’d thought she’d caught him watching her a few times, his eyes dark and brooding, since the evening they’d sat in the office, her eyes blackened from his elbow and his dark with emotion, drinking whisky and finally talking the way she’d wished they could for ages. She’d caught herself thinking about the fact that Strike’s bed had been only a brief flight of stairs away and had silently thanked God for the timely interruption of Sam Barclay, before she’d given into the urging of the whisky and leaned toward the man who’d just told her she was his best mate and ruined everything. 

As she walked toward the Tube station that would take her back to Earl’s Court, she slid her hand into her handbag, pulling out the notebook and running her thumb over the edge of the photograph that stuck out slightly from the pages of the book. The timing seemed as though it would never be right. But at least now she had a picture of him to treasure. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
